Inside Out

32

The radio shack on Rook Island was Signalman Lane Nash's duty station for another three hours and twelve minutes. It was a concrete bunker with a steeply pitched roof covered in sheets of terra-cotta-colored aluminum. The wires and cables ran up the wall like bright vines, secured to the girders and then routed out to the tower through a weatherproof nipple. The copper and fiber-optic material connected the console's monitoring instruments to the sensory devices. Those sensors, located on the tower above the shack, gathered information about things in the atmosphere or on the water and conversed with the satellites that circled the planet in swarms.

There were no windows in the bunker. The console table was ten feet long and had metal cabinet doors at both sides of the operator's seat. There were storage cabinets for parts and equipment, two swivel chairs, and a bathroom that held only a toilet and sink. A single door that opened out from the room was protected from the weather by an awning.

Lane concentrated on the radar screen. The young radio operator had set his paperback aside on the console and was using his shoulder to hold the red receiver against his ear as he spoke to the air-traffic controller at Cherry Point.

“I got the first return just after that King Air passed four miles to the east of here.”

“He was having radio problems and was warned off to the east,” the controller said. “He stayed clear of your position by a half mile.”

“I got returns after it passed.”

“Returns looked like what? I didn't show anything on our end.”

“Soft returns. One sweep showed a spot at four miles, altitude unknown, four sweeps later there was one a half mile from me, then a few later almost onshore.”

“Birds come to shore, right? Go out and shoot a goose.” The controller laughed. “Nothing substantial fell off that King Air. I have it sixty-nine miles south of your position at twenty-five thousand feet, two hundred and thirty-nine knots true.”

“Probably. Just birds,” Lane agreed. He took one last look at the screen and signed off with his controller. He ran his hand through the stubble on his head and picked up his book.

The operator was at a particularly good part when the lights over his console flickered, then went out. It had been storming, but the electricity was almost never interrupted, because it was fed by underground cable to the island. The backup generator was supposed to cut in if the main failed, so the operator waited. It didn't come on.

“God damn it,” he muttered.

He flipped on his flashlight, walked to the switch, and flipped it up and down. He went to the breaker panel. Nothing. Planning to check the generators, he opened the door.

A gloved hand seized his wrist, and a man dressed completely in black, his features hidden behind a black nylon mask, pushed a remarkably large knife under the place where Lane's ribs met, three inches above his belt buckle. Lane looked down and saw the knife go in, but it didn't hurt. The sensation was like the first twinge of a bout of indigestion. He wanted to push the man away, but he couldn't. He felt so weak, so sleepy.

His vision started closing down like a camera aperture being twisted, the image darkening from the outside in. He just wanted to lie down and close his eyes.

John Ramsey Miller

Inside Out